


The County Fair

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes at the village fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The County Fair

"I'm glad you decided to come along with me after all, Mr. Carson." She smiles up at him mischievously and he struggles not to return her smile, though the corners of his lips twitch dangerously.

"I could hardly refuse, Mrs. Hughes, after you told everyone I was going and told me in no uncertain terms that if I weren't to go, I'd be — what was it? Spoiling your fun like a crabby old rain cloud."

Elsie laughs, doesn't deny a word of it. They walk along together, doing their best to ignore the high-pitched shrieks of the maids as they egg on the boys at games, clap excitedly as Jimmy knocks over a stack of bottles, wins a doll for one of them. They had both agreed before setting out that this was a day for relaxation and they'd let the young ones enjoy themselves.

She is dressed in dark blue; he thinks it a lovely color on her, a color that highlights those shocking eyes, the dark underlights of her hair. Her cheeks are rosy from the small drinks of punch, spiked liberally with rum or some other sweet spirit; he had offered to get her one of her own, but she had declined only to steal sips from his glass. He doesn't mind.

The fairground is milling with excited teenagers, with couples entwined arm-in-arm, and she wonders longingly if she should take his, pretend for a while, but she doesn't. She knows only too well what pretending gets her — a few moments of dreaming pleasure, yes, but the reality is always too cold to come back to. She will enjoy his company, his friendship, and that is no small thing in itself. It is a joyous thing, when she thinks about it, the thing that has made working in Downton all these years a bearable state. A fine place to be, even, sometimes.

They walk along, looking at the stalls, the wares on display, tasting the proffered samples of cheese, of fruit. She buys a cup of particularly tempting grapes, eats them slowly as they stroll. Offers them to him, watches him from the shadow of her lashes as he pushes the ripe fruit between his lips, suckles gently before biting. Can't stop her mind from making the leap, can't stop from thinking about his mouth on —

Elsie looks down, concentrates on the little cluster of grapes. There are two left and she eats one slowly, relishes the wet cool juice, the tart sweetness. She takes the last one between her finger and thumb and turns to offer it to him, holds it up with a smile that quickly fades as she has misjudged her distance from him and it looks for all intents and purposes like she wishes to feed him the grape, as if she's offering it to his mouth instead of his hand and he arches his brows, flicks a glance over her shoulder, inclines his head and accepts the fruit from her fingers with his teeth, gently, ever so gently, and her breath catches as his tongue brushes her fingertips with the most fleeting of contact. She blinks hard, swallows. Jerks her hand back.

They walk on. He wonders why on earth she had to buy fruit, of all things, and then eat it in front of him like that, slowly, lushly, with juice glistening on her lips, with tiny sounds of satisfaction, little — well, there was no other word for it. Little moans of pleasure. His damnable mind had quickly made the small jump, he was unable to not think of her making those same little noises, those throaty moans, as her hot mouth opens and takes —

He exhales a long sigh, distracts himself with the sights and sounds of the fair. There is a house of mirrors and she is grinning, pulling him toward it and he laughs, goes with her. Pays for them both at the booth and she gives him a shy look of appreciation and he's flooded with warmth, with gratitude for that look, that soft pretty gaze of thanks. Walks in with her.

She pushes him in front of the stretching mirror and gurgles with laughter as his already towering body is elongated, turned into a facsimile stick figure that seems twelve feet tall. He gives her a look of long suffering, scoots her in front of the horizontal glass, laughs at her outraged sound as the mirror throws back a reflection of a tiny squat woman as round as a berry. Elsie pretends to huff away down the corridor of glass, turns a sharp corner, and he follows slowly as the tent grows dark, darker. They are getting deep into the maze of mirrors now, surrounded on all sides by the cold panes; the opening is far back and it's very dark back here in this right angle. She stops, puts a hand on his arm, points.

They are in a glass darkly now, a misty, fogged mirror that gives them an ethereal, otherworldly appearance. He's beautiful, she thinks with wonder, like a fallen angel with his severe black suit, his pewter hair, the strong relief of his profile. Carson looks at her and is caught, stares fascinated. She, in contrast to all his darkness, is paler, the blue-grey of her eyes glimmering like morning ice, the living pink washed from her skin, leaving her an alabaster sculpt, a frozen fey queen.

"Mrs. Hughes, you —"

She looks at him in the glass. He doesn't go on, just continues to stare at her image.

"Yes, Mr. Carson?" Elsie speaks slowly, as if they are underwater, caught in some lovely Atlantis of time.

He shouldn't say this, he's sure of that, but who is really going to be harmed? What hurt can really come of it? Perhaps if he just says it to the woman there in the mirror, perhaps then his words will stay there in the glass and it won't matter.

"You are very beautiful."

Elsie bites her lip gently. She has never expected this from him, has never expected to hear any words of — well. Admiration for her as a woman, she supposes. She breathes out the next words, not to the man standing so close to her but to the specter there before them.

"As are you, Mr. Carson. Very."

He moves then, takes a step back and over so that he is standing behind her, and his hands are on her shoulders and she leans back just a bit so she can feel him pressed against her body. Carson whispers to her.

"Just — let's just — watch them."

She knows exactly what he means, precisely what he means by them, and she nods almost imperceptibly and lifts her chin, angles her head, pushes back and he is pressing his lips to her bared neck, trailing his thumb over her throat. She twists just enough — careful to keep her eyes on the mirror because they are doing that, not them, the woman in the mirror is flushed and wanting, not her — to drag her mouth over his cheekbone, his cheek.

Carson lets his hands slip down, down to her hips to clasp her gently, keeps his gaze fixedly before him as he kisses the smooth skin of her nape, her pulse, and — damn it, damn — the light is increasing, the barker is pulling back the entrance now to admit other fair-goers so he takes the moment and bites down gently on her neck, sucks hard at the hot flesh, releases it slowly as she tenses and gasps, makes a lovely little sound of pained pleasure. It'll mark, he knows, by tomorrow morning; she'll have to wear a high neckline, but that is his intent. It's his intent that she wake up in the morning and see his mark there, that she feel it, sensitive and tender; that she play her fingers over it and feel his mouth all over again.

She stands up, clears her throat, catches her breath. Turns to him.

"Well, then. We should go, Mr. Carson, we've lingered here for quite a while."

He offers his arm, as she had hoped he would when they started on this outing.

"We should. There's so much more to see, Mrs. Hughes."


End file.
